Healing and Artwork
by Ishmael of the Clouds
Summary: Joe is left alone and broken after Anya leaves, he has nothing left. Atalanta is a poor girl on the streets of Rome with an artistic mind and skill and a dark past. They cross paths, can Joe help her from her dark past, and can she give him recovery from his heartbreak? Will they find healing in each other? Not a great fic, T paranoia. R & R please please please


"I cry Babel, Babel look at me now and the walls of my town come crumbling down." Atalanta sang in the street of Rome. It was a beautiful city, and kind to even a woman who sang for money. She strummed the small guitar as a familiar face rounded the corner. It was sun tanned with a mop of dark hair.

"Marcus!" He laughed and gave her a chaste hug.

"New song?" She nodded. And strummed the guitar when another man passed by.

"Yeah, this one feels right. It took me three weeks to write it." He mussed a hand through her short, curly hair.

"I bet." His eyes roamed and she leaned to hide it but he noticed a single bag by the crate she had been sitting on.

"It's all fine, Benito is letting me keep my works in his shop and is trying to sell some of them it is only temporary."

"Lanta, did you lose your apartment again?" She looked down.

"It's only temporary." He gave her a concerned look before glancing at the square clock.

"Make sure of that." He hurried away to his regular gig at the moored barge. A couple days ago he had to buy a new guitar, his had been taken by some crazy lady to fight off some black suited men. She shrugged and started playing again.

"I know the choices color all I've done. I'll know my weakness, know my voice, and I'll believe in grace and choice." Her throat constricted as a regular came down the street. She hadn't seen him in a couple days, but the tall man sometimes gave her a few lira. He hadn't ever spoken to her, but he was the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life. She didn't know what his name was, or what he did, but today he walked slower, and there was sadness unparalleled in his face. Utter, hopeless grief. She changed the tone to a different song as he got closer.

"These days of dust, which we have known, will blow away will this new sun. But I'll kneel down, no my ground. And I will wait I will wait for you." She had not written this with him in mind, someone else, but he paused.

"So relent, will you forgave and I won't forget. What we've seen, and so been blessed. I will wait I will wait for you. I will wait I will wait for you." His dark eyes bored into hers, but she kept singing. Something in the song, it called to him.

"I'll kneel down for now, I'll know my ground." As per it was late in the day, her fingers throbbed.

"Raise my hands, feel my heart slow, I will wait I will wait for you." Without looking away he dropped a few notes into her case. She finished, and he stood before her silently for a moment. He was so tall, so imposing.

"What is that song?" He spoke with an American accent, and his voice, it was deep and vibrated in her bones.

"It has no name. I wrote it myself the other night." He nodded vaguely.

"What is your name?"

"At-Atalanta." She studied his face, strong features, dark hair, dark, deep and captivating eyes. His must be years older than her. He again nodded absently. She eyed him nervously. Before he had seemed, charming humorous, maybe with a dash of scoundrel. Now, it was as if something had been torn from him.

"I am Joe." He extended his hand, and she shook it, noticing he had similarly callused fingers. She replied as her mother had taught her years ago.

"Pleased to meet you." He stumbled back, surprised. She was affronted, she might be poor, but she was raised right. To a certain point. He shook his head again and had to ask.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes." He turned to go, and she shrugged, taking up her guitar again. She strummed a single cord before he turned back to her.

"Will you be here tomorrow?" She nodded.

"Every day about this time." He nodded and walked down the street, away from the singing Atalanta.

"That would not be the end, of the Holland road," At about noon, she packed up and headed to Benito's studio. It was a beautiful stucco building, with open arches that looked out onto the Eternal city. His studio was open to all struggling artists of every kind. He painted himself, and sold the products of others in his shop, giving them most of the profits from their artwork. She quickly made her way to the corner reserved for her, and picked up her sketch book.

"Ciao Atalanta, what you work on today?" As he spoke, he pulled down a couple or paintings from the wall behind her, which were mostly hers.

"A stranger I met today. For my poor skills it will be quite a challenge."

"Oh you're skills are far from poor." She raised her eye brows.

"They are far from good. Some buyers?" She glanced to the paintings he reached for.

"Perhaps, but dear fanciulla, you might have little natural talent with sketching, but you practice and learn. And you have talent with a brush." She frowned at her impressionist rendering of the coliseum.

"Acquired skill is less compared to natural talent."

"Psht. You work on drawing, I sell these." He bustled away and she concentrated on getting the eyes of the stranger just right. They were so dark, a deep brown, but that wasn't all. There was the darkness of some great loss, some wrenching pain. She erased, switched pencils, her eyes ached but she focused in on her memory of looking into those eyes. Half satisfied after half an afternoon, she went about giving the eyes his face. Handsome face, good jaw if not as sculpted as some find attractive, tanned skin, dark, thick hair. Then his tall, imposing body, suited of course. She was absorbed in the crafting of the strange Joe, every fiber of her attention devoted to her work. The pencil made its last stroke as the sun finished setting. Rubbing her eyes, she didn't see Benito come up.

"Atalanta? I am locking up for the night." She nodded, and tried not to think yet about where she was going to sleep.

"I will be back in the morning when you open to get my guitar." She carefully, but swiftly stowed away her bag and guitar by her other two bags under her bench in the corner. Nearly running, she swept around Benito and out of the studio, only slowing when she was out of range of his worry. Putting her head in her hands, she sighed.

"What now?" Taking a deep breath, she searched for some place to curl up for the night. She wandered for a while. Up and down alleys, sometimes trying the door of a decrepit looking place. But in the end she chased some roaches away and settled behind some stacks of crates and under a few old blankets. Closing her eyes, the memory of her sketch was held in her mind before she drifted into a deep, but not pleasant sleep.

Waking before the sun, Atalanta stretched her stiff limbs. Jogging through the still chilled streets she got to Benito's just as he was opening up as the sun just started to peek out. Some "sunrise painters" as he called them waited with her. She quickly got her guitar, but hesitated when her eyes fell on the sketch book. Shrugging, she grabbed it and hurried into the just waking alleys of Rome. She couldn't get to her street fast enough. She couldn't see Joe soon enough.

Once in her street, she carefully unpacked her guitar. But sitting with it on her lap, she couldn't keep her eyes away from her sketchbook, which rested beside her. Taking it up, she opened it to the page of Joe. With her pencils she added a little, erased a little, and generally worked on the details. The sun was up and the city was bustling before she set it down and began playing.

"Fingers tap into what you were once." She put her heart into her song. She sang from the depths as she always had. Her fingers blurred over the strings and her eyes closed, the feeling of song in her throat and sun on her face was all she needed to forget her predicament. Forget she was without a place to sleep.

"And I'm worried that I blew my only chance. Under the sun, I found the one that I love." She forgot how she had little money, less food, and nothing but her few belongings and her art and song. There was a time she believed that was all she needed. Maybe to be happy, it was. Maybe. Marcus said she drew well, wrote well, painted well, but in everything but her voice and playing, something was missing. Lacking somehow.

"Whispers in the dark, steal a kiss and you'll break a heart. Pick up your clothes and curl your toes. Learn your lesion, lead me home. Spare my sins for the ark, I was too slow to depart. I'm a cad but I'm not a fraud." Her boot tapped a rhythm along with her playing. The stone walls echoed her sound. Lira notes fell into her case. The sun continued on its unalterable arch. A couple hours later, Joe had made no appearance. She chucked up as she glanced at the sky, and started a newer tune.

"So break your step, and relent. We forgave but I won't forget. So in some way shake the excess. So I will wait, I will wait for you." Magic, she swore. He turned into the street.

"Raise my hand, paint my spirit gold. Bow my head, make my humble. I will wait, I will wait for you." Right up to her, stopping, waiting until she ended.

"Hello." God his voice. She didn't shiver. All night outside she wasn't going to shiver now. Nodded to him.

"Hello Joe." He placed lira notes in her case, she repressed the urge to see how much. A almost grin came to his face.

"Good day?" There was more than normal in the case.

"I guess so. Just too little too late." His head cocked to the side.

"Are you having troubles?" She shook her head, unwilling to give away her situation.

"No. Nothing terrible at least." Awkward silence, before he sat beside her.

"Go on, don't let me stop you. Do you mind if I listen?"

"Not at all." Staring down at her guitar, she picked an older one of hers. It was slower, from a long past time.

"None saw my pain, washed out in the rain. Saw the blood run from my veins. They saw only fault, but not the cracks in my heart. My hope torn apart. The ghosts that I knew, will flicker from view." She could feel his eyes intently on her. Squinting hers closed she blocked out everything.

"So I clung to hope in the darkness, that I will see the light. I will hold as long as I can, just promise I will be alright. Lead myself away. But always look back, cannot close my eyes to my last disgrace. But one day I'll return, they'll hear me more.

"The ghosts I knew, they beat me black and blue. But flicker from view. I cling to hope in the darkness, that I'll see the light, for I ran from such a fright. Just promise I will be alright." She was silent as she played for a while, just held the tune.

"So I gave hope in the darkness, I did see the light. I will hold on with all my might. I will be alright." She added at the end. His dark eyes drew hers inescapably. Their depths flickered with unknown thoughts, and the dreadful sadness was less, perhaps? But one song later, she looked back at him, and he was studying the "artwork" of her sketchbook. She kept playing but watched anxiously as he flipped through. Many were of old Roman architecture, of city animals and the occasional mule. And even less were people. People she had to draw, whether they be beautiful or something about them is worth capturing. He flipped through, his features inscrutable, and he stopped at his. He looked at it for a long time. A long time before he noticed her gaze and she suddenly found an interesting cobblestone.

"You drew this?"

"Who else?" She didn't expect him to put a gentle hand to her cheek and pull it up. He was soft and slow, but it reminded her too much of another time another man. She pulled away, and caution in his eyes told her what he had seen within hers.

"It is very good." Beating around the bush.

"I guess. My sketches rarely turn out what I see in my head. Or what I see in front of me."

"You have skill, but why me? Why decide to sketch me?" He set the book down but did not reach for her again.

"I don't know. I had seen you before, and maybe given you another thought. But yesterday, your eyes, I just needed to draw it. Or try to. I can't really explain it." He pulled back a little.

"My eyes?" She met said eyes reluctantly.

"In them, in them they spoke of sadness. Something ripped away." He stood up quickly, and his gaze darted around. When he didn't speak she merely started pocketing her money and packed up her guitar. After a pause, she closed her sketchbook and tucked it under her arm. Picking up her guitar she tried again to meet his gaze in vain. Reached out a hand, but pulled it back and started down the street. She came to the end before there were footsteps on the cobblestone behind her. She couldn't help but stop and wait until she could feel him over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" No looking at him, but inclining her head towards his deep tones, she answered honestly.

"Benito's studio. I do artwork there in the afternoons. A kind man. He sells students and starts art for them in his shop."

"Benito's, is that by Via Margutta?" Her eyes widened.

"Yes. You know it?"

"You could saw that. May I walk you there?" She nodded hesitantly. Leading the way, it was only a little past noon when she passed the apartments by the studio and got a warm welcome from Benito.

"Atalanta, fanciulla, welcome. There is goodness in the air today." She grinned widely, only vaguely aware of a mildly shocked looking Joe. It was one of Benito's "beauty and art is in the air" days. With a flourish, he led her to her corner.

"Thank you Benito, this is Joe." He nodded knowingly, must have sneaked a peak at her sketch yesterday. But then surprise replaced it.

"Mr. Bradley, you have used my telephone a couple times now yes?"

"Yes I suppose so."

"You here to watch one of my best young artists work?" He beamed at her, and she smiled, before studying the view today. Benito was right in his mood, today was a painting day.

"I am hardly your best artist."

"But you have been here long fanciulla;" He turned to Joe "she was brought by my nephew when she was but fifteen. She took to all kinds of art, and he taught her music. Almost seven years. Here every day." He puffed out his chest before striding away to encourage a sculptor having trouble with her vessel. He sat beside her as she brought out her paints and started marring the white canvas Benito had been thoughtful enough to set up.

"Almost seven years?"

"Seven years tomorrow." She corrected, and focused on getting the shade of green for the almost distant hills just right. He gave a bark of laughter.

"Same for me, but four years only. To think I live just next door."

"In Via Margutta?" Her eyebrows rose.

"Yes, in my tiny apartment." Deciding to take the track of small talk instead of personal past.

"I heard a bigger place is about to open up there."

"Really? I might go for it. I'm getting tired of my kitchen-less place." He noticed the bitter, but almost imperceptible shift in her features.

"What about you, where do you live?" She gave a short chuckle, and turned her attention to the shades of buildings in the sun.

"Nowhere special." A swift sweep of gaze revealed her bags under the bench she sat on.

"Not in the studio?"

"No, I can't impose _that _much on Benito." She was too absorbed in her work to notice his gaze.

"But your bags are here." She blushed a deeper red than the rust colored one on her pallet.

"Yes, I don't have a lot of space."

"Those are the same clothes you were in yesterday." She gave a noise of frustration but didn't stop painting.

"I got kicked out day before last. Singing and painting doesn't exactly pay bills." She replied bluntly.

"You slept on the street last night?" Again, that odd, rare inflection in his tone. But she didn't glance over to see the state in his eyes.

"I did."

"Do you always paint landscapes?" She was shocked by his sudden change in topic, but rolled with it,

"Not always. I like the impressionist style, and landscapes are the most common. But I go into town and paint things like fountains and the coliseum." They continued small talking as she finished the outline of her painting, and at times she focused intently on the landscape. But when the shadows lengthened, she turned her attention solely to her canvas as they spoke. By the end of the day, he realized he knew about her, but nothing of her past. Finally, Benito walked back over as the other artists were packing up.

"I am closing up fanciulla that is a great start." He complimented as she put away her paints. But once she stood up, though her face was passive she had little doubt her eyes betrayed her uncertainty. When Joe stood he towered over her.

"Good night Joe." He put a hand on her shoulder as she went to walk around him.

"Stay with me tonight." Eyes wide she looked over her shoulder, up into his eyes. Her stay with an unmarried man overnight? But his expression did its best to convey his lack of intentions. Biting her lip, she though it over. It was only one night, and he seemed a good guy. Sure he was much bigger and stronger, but she could handle herself.

"Alright." He led the way out of the studio, into Via Margutta, up some winding stairs, and into his small apartment.

"I can see why you want one with a kitchen." She remarked, and noticed a too familiar look of pain. She opened her mouth but couldn't bring herself to ask.

"It's late but I can draw you a bath if you want." He glanced at the rumpled bed. Maid service must not have come today.

"I can go draw my bath. Thank you." He awkwardly put his hands in his pockets. But nervous anything was not like him, and new friend as she was Atalanta could tell.

"I'll get the bed ready."

"No, you take it. I can sleep on the couch." His mouth opened, but no sound came out. She smiled at him and disappeared into the bathroom.

"Get a grip on yourself Joe." He murmured once the door was closed. "She isn't Anya. She is a young woman who must live on the streets half the time Not a princess. Never a princess. She is just someone you are taking pity on. You could even do a story about her." He busied himself with changing, and (without looking of course) slipped his pajamas into the bathroom.

"Don't think about it Joe." Don't think about the last lovely girl to wear those pajamas. He was in bed when she came out in his almost comically big pajamas and still damp hair. She was a tiny pixie of a thing. Curling up in the blankets that adorned the couch, she gave him a long, grateful look with her big brown eyes. Like Anya's in everything but what experiences swam in them.

"Thank you Joe. Good night."

The alarm went off at the normal time, and Joe dragged himself out of bed. Standing blearily down at the slumbering girl on his couch it took him a minute to remember why she was there. His eyes stung when he thought of Anya, but she shifted to reveal shorter hair, higher cheekbones, and a narrower jaw. Shaking his head, he went to the bathroom.

Atalanta woke up slowly, vaguely aware of some movement near her and the sound of a door. Opening her eyes, she saw the inside of a small apartment. She was warm, if a little cramped. The sound of running water came from behind the closed door. As she sat up she ran her fingers through her hair. Trusting he would be occupied, she changed into extra clothes she had brought and picked up her guitar case. Pausing at with her hand on the door, she glanced around, and set her stuff down to scribble out a note.

_"Dear Joe; thank you for letting me stay the night. I will find a way to repay you. It was one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. You know where to find me. – Atalanta." _

Leaving it in plain sight, she unlocked the door and trotted happily to her normal spot to sing.

Joe panicked for a moment when he came out and she was gone. But he quickly saw her note. He crumpled it in his fist, unsure of how to feel, when he truly felt abandoned again. But by what she had written, she must want to see him again. He carefully smoothed it out and folded it up, and slipped it into his pocket. As he got dressed, he noticed her clothes from yesterday on the floor. Picking them up, he fingered them for a moment before putting them in the bin with his clothes that needed to be washed. Smoothing his hair back, he headed to the office, but decided to avoid where she sang on the way there.

Ducking a little to enter the low door frame, Joe Bradley walked into the office of his boss. The man had noticed how despairing he had been after Anya had left, and even though he had been without a story, he had been given some leeway.

"Yes Mr. Bradley? Nice to see you in on time, by the way." He barely glanced up from his papers.

"Sir, I have an idea for a story." Now he looked up, and it wasn't encouragement and love flowing from his face, it was more incredulity and raised eyebrows.

"The last time you told me that it didn't turn out well." Joe resisted stammering, but couldn't keep the slight blush out of his cheeks.

"Yes, but this is on a very different topic. It is on young, struggling artist in Rome. Kids who come to find artistic expression or inspiration, and how they make their living."

"Well. Well, it doesn't sound particularly fascinating, but if you can make it interesting enough I'll forget your dept."

"Sir?"

"Shut up and write Bradley before I start regretting it." Joe snapped his mouth shut, and with a nod left, out to search for Atalanta. As he walked he turned it over in his mind. He had kept it a secret from Anya, and even though it had turned out fine, her trust in him had pained him. Even when he kissed her he knew he was lying to her. That they were lying to each other. Atalanta was so like her, full of life, in a way all her own. Creative, honest (at least in most things), if a little reserved. She might be a little less innocent, in the way she held herself and the way she spoke it was obvious. She was more cynical, but equally intelligent if not as educated as Anya. Atalanta hadn't lied to him though. Left out things, yes, but never lied. He might have matched Anya with lying about himself, but he couldn't do that to Atalanta. He would tell her, interview her like a proper reporter. She would probably know lots of artist eager to get an interview.

"Shake my ash to the wind, lord forgive all of my sins. Let me die where I lie, neath the curse of my lovers eyes." Atalanta nodded to a man who dropped a lira note in her case.

"I walk slow, I walk slow. There's no drink, or drug I've tried, to rid the curse of these lovers eyes. Take my hand help me on my way." Joe hurried around the corner as she strummed the last cords. A genuine smile lit up her face, and he stopped short, but only for a second. She scooted over on the stone bench for him, and seeing the purpose in his features, waited for him to speak.

"Atalanta, would you mind if I interviewed you? My full name is Joe Bradley, I'm a reporter." She stiffened a little, and some wariness lurked behind her brown orbs. She didn't miss the eagerness in his voice, and the hope that touched his handsome features made her soften.

"Have you only been talking to me for a piece your writing?" She teased.

"No, no, I just had the idea this morning. It might help you sell your paintings and artwork. I need to interview a few others too, but you would be the centric person of the article." She nodded slowly, and realized she was already thinking of the people he could interview. But she couldn't do this interview, it was too risky. Even after seven years, even after they knew she was in Rome. She didn't want anything to bring back what she had run from. After at least a minute, she resolved herself.

"I'll do the article. But I want you to use the name Benito sells my paintings under." He looked puzzled, but let him be.

"What name is that?"

"Huntress. Some of my older things were sold with the name Athena but Huntress would be best." He nodded, but did not question her on it further. After a moment she grinned and took his hand as she stood.

"You can interview me at Benito's, I want to finish my painting. I bet you want to interview him too?"

"I do." Joe smiled at her, a smile that lit of his features, and a fleeting thought told her to kiss him. He was so handsome, and so _happy. _Of course he hadn't been depressed all of yesterday, but he certainly wasn't the almost joy that made him look so handsome. Taking a minute to catch her breath, she picked up her guitar and let him to Benito's

"Fanciulla! Joe, so nice to see you!" She grinned at Benito before leading Joe to her corner. She set up her started canvas as Joe got out his tape recorder, pen and paper. Starting the recorder, he gave a brief introduction and Atalanta focused on her painting as he questioned her.

"Joe Bradley recording interview with Atalanta," He paused but she didn't offer up a last name. "Who will go by the alias Huntress, the name which she sells paintings under. Huntress, when did you come to Rome?"

"At least seven and a half years ago, maybe eight. But only the last seven did I focus on being an artist." The line of her lips told Joe she didn't want to reveal more than that, but he had to ask.

"Why did you originally come to Rome?"

"I- I, I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to sing also. So I came to the Eternal city to seek enlightenment and inspiration." She stuttered.

"Have you enjoyed your last seven years in Rome?"

"I have, but it hasn't been easy. It is hard to make ends meet starting out as an artist. I sing for change in the morning to help, but it doesn't make much of a dent."

"I bet, may I ask where you are living right now?" There was an odd hint in his tone, and she responded with a raise of brow and twinkle of eye.

"Oh, just a small apartment next to the studio I work at. It doesn't even have a kitchen." He chuckled and continued.

"What studio do you work at?"

"Benito's Artist Studio Giovani. More people would know his art shop Tutti i tipi di arte. He lets people who are starting out use his studio and sells their paintings for them."

"Besides the small income and cramped living situation, do you enjoy it?" He leaned in, almost needing to know if she was happy in the life she lived.

"I do." She answered without pause. "I am doing what I love. I am fulfilled in so many ways. I am happy because I can't imagine being happy doing something that I can't put my soul into. I am happy because I am not inhibited by anything. Even with little money I am free to do what I love. Artistry is my live, whether it be sketching, painting, singing or writing. It brings me joy." Joe leaned back, and took it in. She held his gaze strongly. Submerged in the depths of her eyes, he knew it. He was captivated by her, Atalanta.

"Thank you Huntress,"

"Might I suggest you interview Benito, and you see the girl over there with the sculpt of a leaping fish? That is Giulia, she is a very skilled sculptor." He turned off his tape recorder, and she added;

"Later, tonight, I have a musician friend, he plays down at the Tiber. He would be a good person to interview." Joe nodded.

"I'll be back," As he walked over to Benito, Joe couldn't help but hope it the musician didn't play at the moored barges. Atalanta had an odd feeling about going to the barges with Joe, but what could the problem be?

Joe started with the sculptor Atalanta had pointed out; Giulia.

"Hello, would you mind being interviewed for an article?"

"What kind of an article?" She asked with heavily accented English.

"One on struggling artists in Rome." She straitened a little bit but didn't seem to be too offended at the term "suffering."

"Alright."

"Why do you sculpt?"

"It brings to life what I see in my mind, the clay can be so fluid and full of being."

"When did you come to Rome?"

"A couple of years ago. I lived in the Italian countryside, but came to Rome to be a sculptor."

"How are you doing with that goal?" She drew herself a little taller.

"Good, I might be sculpting here today, and helped by Benito. But my artwork is selling and I am looking into setting up a shop." He nodded, and they continued for a while. Giulia was proud, but eager. This publicity would bring her business and hopefully prosperity. When it was over, he glanced over at Atalanta in her corner. She was curled up, her new painting hanging above her. She scribbled in a notebook with a pen, her brow slightly furrowed, she hummed a new tune as she wrote.

"Benito, may I get your interview for this piece?"

"Of course signore." The settled themselves in the shop, art hanging all around and sculptors over the floor. A few tourists milled around.

"When did you start this establishment?"

"Perhaps, quindici, fifteen years ago. I had a shop before that, but I opened it to help the young ones get started. It was all for the ones on the street, hungry but stubborn, selling art."

"How has it been doing?"

"It is profitable. Not as much as being alone, but does not impair business."

"When did Huntress join you here?"

"Oh about six and half, seven years past. She did not have a steady hand, but a determined and beautiful mind. She has worked hard. But I am eager for when she possess enough to fully capture what is in her mind, what she sees in the world. She shows great promise."

"What was she like when she first came here?" He knew he should stay on art, and uncertainty in Benito's face, he noticed the deviation. But with a glimmer answered.

"She was scared, skinny, hungry. My nephew, he was here from England, to be a musician. He said she had been singing for lira, and he had seen her sketches. They were good, and he knew I would see her promise. But she never spoke of her life. I was always amazed by her strength of spirit. She came from a terrible place, from the look in her eyes and how she shied from loud noises, or people getting too close. I have seen a children from orphanages react much the same. But she has recovered. Some of her art was always dark. Spoke of pain. As well as some of her songs and writing. But what never failed to amaze me, was the beauty in her work. The prevailing light, and goodness to it. She never let the darkness consume her. She is still close with my nephew." Joe felt a little unsettled at that, but now listened to her faint humming with new intrigue. Strength of spirit. That was what he heard flow from her songs. What he saw captured in her sketches.

"Do tourists often buy these young artist work?" So went the rest of the interview, but Benito maintained a knowing glimmer.

"Are you going to get more interviews today?"

"Yes, Atalanta is taking me to see a musician she thinks I could interview."

"She knows some of the most talented, though underappreciated in the city." Joe felt the man's gaze stay on him as he walked back into the studio. Shadows were lengthening rapidly, and Atalanta sat, leaning out the window. Orange sunlight streaked her face, her notebook and pen in her lap, and her eyes brimming with unknown thoughts. But he could see it now, in the depths, pain. Left behind, but never really vanishing. Was that a faint scar on her temple? But, like Benito said, strength of spirit. In the way she held herself, her gaze searched the sunset horizon. Searching, but not for anything in particular, and finding it somehow. He didn't know how long he stared, but she roused herself and looked at him.

"Joe," She felt something on the tip of her tongue, but it vanished.

"Yes?"

"Shall we go meet Marcus?" It would be nice to see him again, she thought. She missed Marcus. He was her rock.

"Marcus?"

"Yes, he is the best musician in town, and an old friend of mine." She could hear the way she said, old friend. Joe seemed to visibly relax. Marcus was her best friend in the world. She tucked the notebook beside her sketchbook. Picking up her guitar case, she gave Joe a long, measured look. Something was different now. His eyes glowed with new respect, and something else? But she pushed it out of her mind, and led the way to the Tiber. They walked mostly in silence, hands occasionally brushing. What had Benito told him that made him silent now? But when they were almost there he asked in a choked voice.

"Are we going to the barges?" She eyed him curiously.

"Yes. Marcus plays there. A good job, but last week some lady broke his guitar over a man's head. Thankfully he had an old one." She glanced at Joe, shocked to see his eyes shimmering.

"Joe?" He forced a smile, but she held his gaze, refused to look away.

"I was there that night, had a pretty good time." Vague irony in his tone made her unsure how to interpret his words, but already they were there, surrounded by the sounds of light and dancing. She smiled in spite of herself. Once they were by the ticket man, she called out.

"Marcus!" Joe noticed a young looking guitarist, perhaps twenty five or so, with a lean tanned face and a mop of dark hair, light up when he saw Atalanta. They waited for the number to finish, before hurrying over.

"They're with me." The man shrugged and let them in. Joe was almost overwhelmed when she hugged the guitarist. A pang of jealousy tempered his pain at being back here, and the sheer memories of Anya and dancing. But the hug was chaste, he noted.

"Marcus, how have you been?"

"Good, you? I have seen you fleetingly but have never had time to talk." She nodded understandingly. His talent was in demand, and she didn't begrudge him.

"I have been good, and I've brought some publicity for you. Marcus, meet Joe Bradley. He is doing an interview about young artists and musicians starting out in Rome." He nodded sagely and gave Joe a quick handshake, but peered closely at his face. She questioned him with a look.

"Weren't you there a week or so ago when that fight broke out?" Joe was at a loss.

"Yes." Before Marcus could question more, the band leader called to him in rapid Italian. He turned to go.

"Indulge me Lanta? I see you brought your guitar." She smiled sheepishly, before getting it out as Marcus spoke to the rest of the band. Several of them sat down, and she and Marcus exchanged a few words. Joe went to the bar and leaned against the bar. Marcus started.

"In the middle of the night, I may watch you go. They'll be no value in the strength of the walls that I have grown." It started out slow, but promised more, and Atalanta started, and so they traded back and forth. Sometimes singing together, flaunting vocal range and power.

"They'll be no comfort in the shade or that shadows grove."

"But I'll be yours if you'll be mine." He gave a flirting glance, and they seemed to dance back and forth as the music picked up.

"Stretch out my life, and pick my seams out, take what you like, but close my ears and eyes."

"Watch me stumble, over and over."

"I had done wrong, you built your tower."

"But called me home, and I will build my throne." The rest of the world vanished, it was only her, Marcus, and the music. But somehow the face of Joe swam out from the dark crowd. She looked into his eyes, and felt something like never before. But channeling it into the music, she kept going.

"But love the one you hold, and I will be your ghost"

"To have and to hold."

"A lover of the light. Her eyes like marbles, skin to tight."

"You spin me high, so watch me as I glide, but fall homewards, homewards."

"I know I've tried, I was not stable. Flawed by my pride, I miss my sanguine eyes. So hold my hands up, breath in and breath out." Dark memories flowed in this verse, but flow all of it into the song. Use them to give emotion.

"So love the one you hold, and I will be your gold. To have and to hold."

"A lover of the light," Her eyes met Joe's. Atalanta felt so pulled towards him, and breathless though she kept singing. But the pace slowed down. She remembered writing and practicing with Marcus. This song was about both of them truly. How they loved each other, drawn together. But in the end…

"But in the middle of the night I'll watch you go. There'll be no value in the strength of walls that I have grown. There'll be no comfort in the shade, of the shadows thrown. You may not trust the promises of the change I'll show."

"But I'd be yours if you'd be mine." In the end they were friends. Marcus was wonderful, but she needed someone to match her, not temper her. He would always need a delicate girl e could look after, and she needed, well, she wasn't sure. But she didn't need to be looked after like some flower. She needed someone to love and share it with. They played together, perfectly synchronized. She exchanged a glance with him. He found her when she was beaten and starving. He had taken care of her when she had needed it. But she healed herself. They had fallen in love, but in the end it became what it should be.

"So love the one you hold, and I will be your gold. To have and to hold, a lover of the light."

"Love the one you hold, and I will be your ghost." She looked deep into Joe's eyes, and continued, thinking of him, and meaning every word.

"To have and to hold. A lover of the light." Finishing, she gave a quick bow before setting aside her guitar. She perched on the bar next to Joe.

"You have been here before?"

"Yes, with an old friend of mine. What was that song about?" He seemed to be looking into her, seeking the answer he knew existed.

"Myself and Marcus. We wrote it together. Right after I realized I was never going to marry him. When we both knew we would never spend the rest of our lives together. Like that."

"Why?" There was a trace of anger in his voice, or perhaps regret.

"He needed someone to care for and look after. I needed someone to share my life with. To share my life with, not shelter or care for me. I was always independent. Sure I sometimes wish to have the reassurance that someone would, but I have taken care of myself. We needed different things." Joe nodded sagely. They talked a little about music, Rome. But Joe decided to take a chance.

"I was here last time with my friend Anya. She was amazing, and in only a day I fell in love with her. But we were lying to each other. No matter how much we loved each other, we could never be together." Realization lit her face, followed by sorrow.

"That was why. Why you were so depressed. Something was ripped away." Before more could be said, Marcus pulled her back to the band.

"I know for this crowd it's a bit of a stretch, but can you do Hopeless Wanderer?" She nodded, and he played accompaniment behind her.

"I heard your voice, came of out the woods by choice. In the dark I had no name, so leave that click in my head. I will remember the words that you said. Left that place with a clouded head and a heavy head. But I was sure you were my new start." Marcus encouraged her, she had never sang this for anyone but him.

"So when my hopes are on fire, but you know your desire. Don't hold a glass over the flame my heart won't grow cold. I will call your name, but remain my own." She summoned up her strength. This demanded all of it, this was pieces of her soul.

"But hold me fast, hold me fast. Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer. Hold me fast, please hold me fast. Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer." Not even the intrigue of Joe distracted her. This was all her own. Closed her eyes and let it consume.

"I wrestled long with my youth. We tried so long to live in the truth. But do not tell me all is fine, for when I lose my mind I lose my soul. I won't remember the words that you said. You brought me out of the cold, now how I long, how I long to grow old." Marcus chimed in perfectly;

"So when your hopes on fire, and I know my desire, I won't hold a glass to the flame. Don't let your heart grow cold, but remain your own." Back to Atalanta, it was unexpected but not unwelcome as she ended.

"But hold me fast, hold me fast. Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer. Hold me fast, please hold me fast cause I'm a hopeless wanderer. I will learn, I will learn, to love the sky's I'm under. The sky's I'm under. I will learn to love the sky's I'm under." She smiled at Marcus, and then at Joe. The music struck a more normal tone and the dancers swirled around her as she made her way to Joe. Sitting, he looked at her for a moment.

"That looked exhausting, but would you like to dance?" She smiled unexpectedly at him, and took his outstretched hand.

"My pleasure." And so they danced. He smelled of aftershave and mild natural musk. She was drawn closer by the strength, and amiability he seemed to radiate. She knew he wasn't mr nice guy, but he was a good man at heart. And perhaps around her that was what came out. Joe pulled her closer to him she was smaller, slighter than he, smelling faintly of paper, graphite and ink. But she was strong, in every step she took, to others she might be more cynical, more standoffish, but she was open with him.

"This girl you were here with, why did you love her?"

"She was innocent." He answered without pause, and sensed a wilt in her.

"Innocence does not become me." She commented with cynicism lacing her tone.

"No, but she was unlike anyone I had met. But she was, unreachable. I could forget about it for a day. Forget the original reason I was kind to her was because I pitied her, than seeked something from her. She could forget she was so removed from the world, forget her responsibilities. We could forget it in our lies. But I fell in love with her and that is not as easily forgotten."

"That is true. I will never forget how I loved Marcus. But in time things fall behind. Unfortunately it tends to be the things that were good, and not the bad." He nodded, and they chatted, danced, smiled. The night sped by, and as the band were playing their last song, Atalanta was speaking.

"I have always wanted to open my own studio, and live above it, with a room just for books. I will sell my paintings, maybe sculpt." When Joe kissed her. Long and deep, they closed their eyes. She seemed to melt against him, strong arms around her, firm lips to hers. But as the last of the people left, she pulled away, worry in her eyes.

"Before we do this Joe, I have to show you something." She walked up to Marcus.

"When is Joe going to interview me?"

"Sometime tomorrow, if you can meet him at the spot I sing during the morning. But can I use the piano before they put it under cover?"

"Sure, they won't tonight though, no chance of rain. You two can go when you finish, the place will be locked up after you." She nodded, and waited, still as a statue until everyone but Joe and the old janitor were left. He was beside her.

"Atalanta?" She sat at the piano.

"It has been a while since I played a piano, but this song will never leave me." She tested the keys, fingers ghosting across them, familiarizing herself once again.

"You play?"

"Yes. I can't read music. But I was taught by my grandfather to play be ear when I was a kid." She closed her eyes for a moment, before starting. It was a quick, but almost foreboding tune, full of dark energy.

"Slap my mouth and hold my tongue, I'll never be your chosen one. Someday I'll be home, safe and tucked away. You can't tempt me if I don't see the point." A little faster, her eyes blazed.

"The pull on my flesh was just too strong, and you stifle my choices and the air in my lungs. Better not to breath than to breath a lie, cause when I open my body I breath in lies." Eyes closed, but fire still seemed to radiate from her,

"But I will not speak of your sins. There is a way out for me. The mirror shows not but your values are all shot." This was it. In this song was what made her shy away from contact and starving, he realized, but had no idea how true it would be.

"But oh my heart was flawed I knew my weakness. But I will not consign to darkness." Her fingers knew this song inside and out as they ran along the keys, and the anger in her voice lended power to the swift, dark tones.

"Crawl on my belly til the sun goes down, I'll never wear your broken crown. You took my road, and fucked it all away. In this twilight light how dare you speak of grace." She spat.

"Crawl on my belly til the sun goes down, I'll never wear your broken crown. You took my road, and fucked it all away. In this twilight light how dare you speak of grace."

"Crawl on my belly til the sun goes down. I'll never wear your broken crown. You took my road, and you fucked it all away. But in this twilight our choices seal our fate." She finished, and simply stared at the keys. Joe took her by the hand, and led her home. But down the streets, into Via Margutta, and lastly, when he sat her on his bed, he saw it. She pushed up her sleeves, and opened her eyes. He felt plunged into their depths. Scars marked the backs of her hands and upper arms. Pulling her shirt off, but leaving on her undershirt, she turned to reveal long, old, but still faintly raised whip scars going from her shoulders down beneath the undershirt.

"Atalanta?"

"I was thirteen when my mother, by single poverty stricken mother had the chance to give me a better life. We lived outside Seattle Washington in the USA. A rich family she cleaned for offered to take me in, when she had to go attend to my grandmother after my grandfather died. But she didn't know I was greatly at odds with the head of that family. I despised that man. He was cruel, self-involved, arrogant. He only wanted me to stay to be a servant. I didn't object because I would have only been a burden to my mother. I caused great trouble for him. Since I rejected religion, stirred up trouble in his household, and defied him simply by being my own person, he sent me away. To an expensive school for American kids in the Italian countryside. Run by monks and nuns. My mother was so proud. It was horrible for me there. Myself, and a handful of other were subject to it. Thankfully none of the monks took a liking to me, but the nuns hated me. I was whipped for nothing more than not singing in the chapel. They didn't let me sketch. I was beaten regularly. I think the man who sent me paid them to do it. Eventually I ran away. I went to Rome. I stole a guitar, a sketch book and some pencils. I finally made it to Rome, and Marcus found me starving. I believe Benito must have said the rest." She leaned back on the bed, before picking up her guitar and idly playing some chords. Without knowing what else to do, he went to Benito's, who was oddly locking up at such a late hour.

"Chao Mr. Bradley, a picky customer kept me up, what can I do for you?"

"Can I go in and get something I left behind." Opening the door wider, Joe rushed an and grabbed Atalanta's bags, and hurried back to his own apartment. He put the bags on the floor. She still strummed her guitar, and looked at him curiously.

"It will be hard until I can get an apartment with a kitchen." She smiled.

"Joe Bradley, you are a strange man." He smiled his captivating smile.

"You are a strong woman." She gave a nod indicating "touché"

"You don't mind me occupying your tiny bachelor pad?"

"Not at all." Setting down her guitar she slid closer to him.

"I can cook, as well as clean. Laundry not so much, but I can learn." He pulled her against him, and she winched as his fingertips traced the scars on her back. But he kissed her, long and deep, and sure.

"I'll take the couch tonight." She smiled at him, and without changing curled up on the bed and fell asleep.

She woke before him that morning, and remembered everything. She stared at the sleeping form of Joe. She turned off his alarm, it wasn't a work day anyway. After a bath, she lingered after changing. Picking up her guitar case, she ran her fingers through his dark hair. She loved him. In a matter of days she loved him. Somehow, I healed him, she thought. And somehow, he opened me up. Sitting down, she swiftly sketched from memory, and leaving her book open to the page, she walked out. Atalanata didn't leave a note, but went to her normal spot, and couldn't stop smiling.

He woke again, alone. But ruffling his hair, he smiled when he saw what she had left him. A new sketch of him, smiling, the lights of the barge in his eyes. Unable to stop, he smiled as he got ready, and hurried to see her. When her voice floated around the corner, she was finishing a familiar tune.

"I will wait, I will wait for you. Tame my flesh, and fix my eyes, a tethered mind freed from the light. I knell down, wait for now. I'll knell down hold my ground. I will wait I will wait for you." He sat down next to her and put the sketchbook on her lap.

"I like my eyes in this." As he gazed into hers, the pain, the darkness that lurked in the back had been finally shed. Now they were filled with love, and happiness.

"I do too. Marcus is coming for his interview." Joe nodded, and he gently took her hand in his. They had healed each other.

One year later.

"I'll tell ya man, I never expected this." Irving told a tuxedoed Joe as they ate cake. Atalanta softly punched Irving from behind, and Joe couldn't keep his eyes off his bride, his wife now. Her stunning white gown had been made by Benito's wife, and small white flowers were woven in her short hair. Marcus sang with his now very popular band.

"I'm sorry Irving, but it is you who goes around running into my fist." She sweetly apologized before laughing. Joe put and arm around her waist. The three stood a little apart from the guests, and Joe instinctively tightened his grip when a grim looking, unfamiliar man in a dark suit came up.

"The three of you must speak with madam in the dark car." A car with tinted windows had rolled up, unbeknownst to the rest. Going over, Joe had a suspicion, but didn't know whether he dreaded it or looked forward to it. They got in the back seat of the car, and were facing no one else but Anya, or Princess Ann, and Joe couldn't thank the lord enough he had told Atalanta Anya's real identity.

"Congradualtions, Joe, who is your wife?" Anya was as beautiful as always, but her hair had grown out again. There was less innocence to her, and thankfully no bitterness in her tone.

"This is Atalanta Bradley." She smiled and shook hands politely.

"Very nice to meet you Anya, I have heard much about you."

"You have a very nice name, Atalanta the huntress from Greek mythology, if I am correct?"

"You are." Anya turned her attention to Irving.

"Hiya Smitty." He gave his goofy smile.

"Hello Irving, I can never thank you enough for those pictures." She looked at Joe, then back at them.

"May I have a moment alone with Joe? It was great to see you again Irving, and meet you Atalanta." Atalanta gave Anya a long, measure, I trust you look, before exiting the car. Once again Joe remembered how he loved her. How individual she was.

"I am immeasurably happy for you Joe." But there was a trace of pain in her voice.

"I know, and I missed you Anya. I never forgot you."

"You truly love Atalanta."

"I do, she is the love of my life." He knew the words could be cruel, but they were true. She had proved herself second to no one.

"I am glad to hear you have found happiness Joe."

"I wish you the same Anya." They shared a smile, and he got out of the car. As he walked back to the reception he remembered his long walk out the embassy, longing to be called back, but wasn't. But now, he did not long to called back, those he sensed Anya growing distant behind him. But he met Atalanta's eyes, and he knew he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
